You're Not Here
by Vintage Tea Party
Summary: John and Sherlock are both grieving after Sherlock's 'death'. Each one writes letters to the other to deal with their pain in the year after the fall. It may or may not help them cope. Rated T for heavy angst and grief.
1. One Week: John

**A/N: This is not a prequel to my other post-Reichenbach story "The Return." It is meant to be a separate scenario and it will have its own sequel in which Sherlock returns to John. **

**One Week: John**

_One week and you're not here…_

You would probably make fun of me for writing this letter. I can just hear you saying how ridiculous it is to write a letter to a dead person. You wouldn't understand why someone would do such a thing. It wouldn't make any more sense than the fact that I write this while sitting in your chair. It's because of sentiment, you know, your favorite thing. Because it's been one week and you're not here. And I write because I need to talk to you and I sit here because I want to be close to you.

Right after _it_ happened they took me in the hospital. They said I had a concussion and shock and I'm pretty sure they were right. I was in a daze for a moment until it all came back rushing at me with intensity. I kept demanding that they let me see you. I was screaming at them and you'd probably say that that I was losing it. They wouldn't let me see you. They said you…were too badly damaged. I don't even know why I wanted to see you again. I had already seen it for myself but it just felt weird, like something was off. I think they sedated me after that.

I don't really remember the days following that. I could blame it on the concussion but I don't think it's that. I was just so numb, so much in shock, that I don't remember the days between your…death and your funeral. Thinking about those days, I only remember two things. I remember when Mrs. Hudson came to get clothes to burry you in. When she asked me I was so dumbfounded that I couldn't speak, couldn't move. I didn't understand what she saying. I am thankful that she understood and that she didn't need my help. She just walked past me and did what she had to do.

I also remember when Molly came and returned your things. She gave me a bag of your clothes and she said she didn't know if I would want them or not and warned me that they were bloody. I never opened that bag. She also handed me your coat and scarf even though, they too were bloody. I was surprised that she was so calm and that she left so quickly, but I was glad because I just barely got the door closed in time. That coat still smelled like you; I didn't realize how powerful that would be. I breathed deeply from it but I couldn't ignore the stains. I sobbed that day.

Other than those two events, I remember almost nothing. I think Mrs. Hudson came every day. I think she convinced me to eat and drink (how do you like that? Someone telling _me _to eat). She's probably the only reason I'm alive. You owe her a lot because I'm sure she did a lot of things in those days that I didn't even know needed doing and wouldn't have been able to do. Though I think you had most of the arrangements taken care of ahead of time. I find that strange considering how young you were but then again it is you and strange is your middle name.

The day of your funeral was the hardest day of my life and that's saying a lot, all things considered. I had been numb for days but that day I felt and remember with painful intensity. I have never felt so incredibly heavy as I did that morning as I tried to get dressed. I'm not even sure how long it took me. And when Mrs. Hudson came to get me to leave I felt panic. I wasn't sure I could go, that I could do this. But she murmured something reassuring to me and somehow I started to walk.

It was me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, and a few people that you've helped over the years. I was glad to see that not everyone believed the lies. But I was sad to see the number of people who knew you and weren't there and know that so many of them must have believed them. I was selfishly glad that there weren't that many people there. I just feel like a bag of contradictions these days. Its not that I didn't want people there to say goodbye to you, I just don't know how many people I could have tolerated and still keep it together.

It was hard enough as it was. Mrs. Hudson held on to my arm and cried the whole time. She did it softly but I still heard every sob and it made it hard for me not to cry. I already felt so sad and her cries reminded me of all the ones that were bottled up inside of me. But I determined not to cry. Not there, in front of everyone. You wouldn't have wanted that.

The others weren't any better. Lestrade just looked guilty and was deliberately trying not to look at me. Molly cried and wouldn't look up from the ground the whole time. Mycroft came as soon as it started and left as soon as it was over. He stayed on the edge of the small crowd and I'm glad; I didn't want him there anyway. But it was the others that made me nervous. They all felt the need to come and talk to me, to talk about you. Everything they said was good, about how you had helped them and how you were a good man. It was hard because I agreed with them and it reminded me of all the things that were special about you.

But the most difficult part of it all was watching them lower you into the ground. I almost lost it then. To my dismay, a couple of tears did slip out of my eyes and I wiped them away furiously. I wanted to scream; someone must have made a mistake because you can't be dead. I guess I always thought you were invincible. You were always so strong, so clever, that death could never claim you. But it didn't; you claimed it. I felt like they were burying me in that grave and I don't think it's an exaggeration; you had become so much of me that they did burry part of me that day.

They asked me if I wanted to say anything about you. I hope you won't think badly of me that I said no. It's not that I didn't have anything to say; I had so much to say but no words to say them. And I would never have made it through it without becoming emotional and I wasn't going to do that. I really just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible. And I would say that you would share the feelings if you were here. But of course you're not here.

When I finally got home I did lose it. All the tears and sobs that I had bottled up all day came spilling out as soon as I walked through that door. I cried because you're not here. You're not here, you're dead. You're dead and they put your body in the ground. I cried because this doesn't feel like life and I don't feel alive anymore. I cried because there were so many things I never told you, so many things I never got to do with you. I cried because of all the things I did get to do with you and how good they were and how they would never be that good again. I cried because this place isn't home anymore. It doesn't feel safe or comfortable without you here. It just feels empty. _I_ just feel empty.

I cried so hard it scared me. It scared me because I wasn't sure I could ever stop. I'd been numb for days and now that I wasn't everything was hitting me full force and it was so much worse than I expected. It was loud and ugly and I know they could probably hear me all over the block but I couldn't stop it once it started. It kept going much longer than my tears did.

And then I got mad at you. Furiously mad at you. I hated you. I hated you for doing this to me, for being the cause of this. I hated you for being wonderful. I hated you for making me want you, for making me need you. I hated you for making my life so exciting. I hated you for making me trust you and then betraying that trust. I hated you for being my best friend. I hate you because you left me; you chose this.

But now I realize something. I realize that even now, knowing you would leave me, that you would betray me, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change anything. If there was a way for me to escape this pain by going back and never having met you, I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't trade the short time I spent with you for anything. Because you were everything I knew I wanted and everything I never knew I needed.

I couldn't say the things I wanted to the day of the funeral but I was able to say them today. I visited your grave for the first time since you were buried. And it's all true. Even through everything that's happened I still mean it all. You are the best man I've ever known and, I'm sure, will ever know. I know that for a fact more than anything else in this life and no one will convince me that you are all those terrible things they say you are, or even that you said you were. You'll never know how much you helped me or all you were to me. And I terribly wish there was some way that you were still alive.

I wouldn't take any of it back but I do admit I don't know what to do, where to go from here. I don't know how I am even going to begin to pick up the pieces. I needed you. I still need you.

**Please follow and review. ********I know it's kind of different than my usual stuff and much heavier so **let me know what you think! Next chapter is in Sherlock's perspective.  



	2. One Week: Sherlock

**One Week: Sherlock**

_One week and you're not here…_

I'm not sure why I am writing a letter to you. It makes no sense to write a letter to you when I have no intention of sending it to you or rather since I am unable to send it to you. Your behavior must be having a greater effect on me than I thought because it's something sentimental that you would do. It doesn't make sense but here I sit doing it anyway. I guess it's because it's been one week and you're not here. I guess it's because I need to talk to you, even though you're not here; I want so desperately for you to know the truth and not the lies I fed you.

This week has been difficult. I've been hiding out in a secure location that Mycroft set up for me. I have had to wait until news of my 'death' has calmed down some before I can leave London and begin my work of taking down Moriarty's crime network. You know how hard it is just for me to not have work to do. The silence and dullness is driving me crazy. And it's worse because it gives me too much time to think and, for once, I don't want to think. I don't want to think because there is no work to think about. I don't want to think because all I can seem to think about it is you.

I know you have had a great influence on me because I have never spent this much time thinking about sentiment. I keep thinking about you and wondering how you are doing. I wonder what you are thinking. I find myself saying things to you before I remember that you're not here to hear it and, unlike the other times, you won't be here anytime soon to hear it. I just keep thinking about that day and what I said to you and the look on your face.

I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I knew I would hurt you with what I had to do but I admit I am surprised just how much it hurt you. I had hoped to fake my death before you returned so that you wouldn't have to see that and, honestly, so I wouldn't have to face you again. I was sad to see you return so soon. I didn't know what I would say. And after I jumped I saw your pain. I heard it in your voice; I had broken you. I am sorry that I did not know how much you cared about me.

But I also saw your loyalty. Even after the terrible things I said to you, even after you thought I willingly jumped to my death in front of your eyes, you still stood by my side. You weren't angry; you were devastated. You wouldn't leave me; they had to take me away from you. No one has ever stood by my side like that even when I deserved it the most. And you stood by my side even when I deserved it the least.

What must you think of me? Part of me desperately needs you to believe the lies I told you while another part of me wants you to know they're lies. I hated telling you all those lies. They were the very opposite of what I wanted to say to you, especially knowing that I would be apart from you for so long. I knew they would hurt you. You'd given me your trust and I was showing you that it was misplaced. I know how hard it was for you to really trust me, how hard it is for you to trust anyone. I always knew that the trust you placed in me was something special and I never wanted to hurt you with that.

What I wanted to tell you instead is how much I need you and never told you. I never wanted to admit that I needed anyone, I never even realized it myself but now I do. It is hard for me to admit that I am lacking in any way but we both know that I am. You make up for those things. You help me to get along with people better, to understand them better. I know that you felt stupid along side of me a lot of the time. I wish now that I had told you that you're not stupid and that you help me a great deal.

And it's not just that you have helped me in my work. _I _need you. I never realized what it could be to have a friend. To have someone who cared about me. I never realized how very lonely I was. I thought I was fine. I was content to keep to myself. But then you came and showed me everything I was missing, how much better things could be. I never told you that either. I never knew how but I wish I did.

I'm surprised by how much I miss home. I never realized I was so attached to our little flat and all it brought with it. In the past week I have found myself spending a great amount of time dwelling on memories. I unfortunately haven't had much to do and I have had plenty of time for thinking. But it still surprises me how nostalgic I have been. I never thought I could miss a place so much. I never realized the comfort and solace our home brought me. I never realized how much I would miss my own bed or sitting in my chair or being surrounded by my experiments and my work. I never realized how much those things could be a part of my identity.

Before I left I did take something. I couldn't take any of my things or anything that could be missed because there couldn't be any chance that you might think I was alive. I'm not sure why I felt the need to have something from home; it does not make any sense. I took a blanket of yours. It's not one that you use often so I hoped you might not miss it. I don't know why I did, why I felt I needed to take something. And I really don't understand why it comforts me so much.

But most of all I am surprised by how much I miss you. It is so strange to me that I can miss you so much when it has only been a week since I've seen you. Even stranger, is that I started missing you before I jumped off that roof. How is that even possible? How could I miss you when you were standing right in front of me?

This pain is so deep. It's not just that you were taken away from me; I had to willingly leave you. Do you know what it's like to have to make yourself leave someone when that is the last thing you want? I know that you have it harder. You have to believe that I am dead, that I am never coming back. I know that's worse because I can't imagine what I would feel if the tables were reversed. But it was hard on me too. I had to choose to leave you. I had to turn my back on you and what we had. There was never any question what I was going to do; I had to do it to save you. But that doesn't mean it didn't still take all of my strength to stay lying on the pavement when you were so desperate for me not to be dead.

I saw you today for one last time, from a distance. I'm leaving London tomorrow and I'm not sure when I'll be back. You were at the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson at my grave. I was wearing a coat that looks like mine but isn't; I let them keep the real one for you. If you had just looked in my direction you could have seen me. I was hiding in plain sight. But you didn't see me and neither did she. I almost wished you had so that this charade could be over but that's a foolish thing to even think because it's the only thing keeping both of you safe.

It hurt me to see the pain I have caused you both. It hurt to see her crying for me but it was nothing compared to seeing you cry for me. I am sorry that I am the reason for your tears. I can see that you haven't moved on, that you still care about me. I had been hoping (and dreadfully terrified) that you would get angry with me, that the thought that I had lied to you would make you so mad you wouldn't be sad when I left.

I am selfishly glad that my last words to you were not enough to plant doubt in your heart that would destroy what we had. I suspected as much when I saw you the day I jumped but I was certain of it today. I'm not sure why you were talking to me, or rather to my grave. You didn't know I was there. Why would you be talking to me when you were convinced I wasn't there? Whatever the reason, I was glad you did because I did have the benefit of hearing it.

I'm glad that you didn't believe those lies. I needed you to be fully convinced I was dead and I am sure that you do. But I am glad that you still believe in me, in our friendship, in our memories. These have been the best years of my life. I know that you think that I saved you, but your loyalty and companionship have kept me alive. All those seemingly meaningless and frivolous activities, the crap telly, and Chinese food and jokes, have meant more to me than even I realized. You're better at these things than me so I hope you realize how much they meant to me.

I will let your words drive me on. They make me stronger for the task ahead. I hope I do not let you down. I will work my hardest to get back to you. You deserve so much more than what I have given you. And I will make that miracle (as horribly sentimental as that sounds) you asked for happen for you.

**I hope that I haven't written John and Sherlock too OOC. They are afterall grieving and these are letters no one is meant to see so they are completely honest. The next letters will be at six months from the fall. **


	3. Six Months: John

Warning: Mentions of suicide

**Six Months: John**

_Six months and you're not here…_

I'm writing you again and I don't know why. There are a lot of things I don't know these days. But it's been six months and you're not here. And that's the problem.

I moved out of our flat. Part of me wanted to get away from there and another part of me was broken hearted. It felt like betrayal. But I couldn't stay there. Every inch of that place, every thing in it, reminded me of you. Everything seemed to have some memory attached to it. Every day I saw your things and remembered that you weren't coming back to them. I couldn't help from sleeping in your bed, sitting in your chair, constantly staring at all your things. I wanted to move on and I knew if I allowed myself to stay there, I never would.

As you could imagine, Mrs. Hudson was crushed. She said that she didn't care about the money and begged me not to leave. But it's not about the money, even though staying would have been unfair to her. It's about the sentiment. Maybe you were right. It _is_ destructive. Even Mycroft tried to talk me out of it. He annoyingly contacts me from time to time. I ignore his texts and I try to ignore his calls but he calls from a different number every time so it's hard. I don't know why he insists on checking up on me. Why does he care? I think he's renting 221B now from Mrs. Hudson. He's probably just too lazy to clean out your stuff and he has plenty of money to blow.

So, I moved out and at first I thought it would help. I really did want to move on. I thought moving would help me make a new home for myself, a new identity. But it didn't help at all. In fact, it made things worse. I feel even lonelier here. I feel like I lost you again. At home I at least felt a little closer to you even though you were gone and I was at least surrounded by familiarity. I underestimated the good that was doing for me. But this place I'm living in isn't a home. And I don't have much of an identity either.

I thought the days would be getting easier and easier. But they're not. I starting seeing my therapist after your death and I thought it would help. I was willing to try anything that promised to lift my mood. I did what she told me do but it didn't help. I know the things she suggested help most people. What's wrong with me? People lose people they care about, people they…love, and they can move on. It's hard but they eventually get on with their lives. What's wrong with me that I can't seem to do that?

I started working in medicine again. I thought that would help. Like everything else, it was a let down. It gives me a distraction but little else. I use to love being a doctor. Being a doctor use to thrill and excite me. It would give me a rush; it would give me a purpose. But after the war my excitement threshold got much higher. Being a doctor no longer excited me. I was lost when you found me and you gave me the amount of excitement that I came to need to survive.

But now that you're gone I'm back in that same place. I work but it doesn't give me any satisfaction. I thought maybe returning to medicine would give me a renewed sense of purpose in my life but it hasn't. It's just a distraction and that's all. Because once you've had a taste of adventure you can never be satisfied with normal any longer.

The patients make me think about the work we use to do. I realize how much you taught me and all I learned from you because I can't keep myself from deducing my patients. You'd probably laugh at my efforts because I'm sure I miss so much and probably get things wrong but I can't help myself from noticing all these little things about them all. They are things that are usually unrelated to their illness or injury and I never would have noticed them before but now I do. I wish I could stop because it is unnecessary and distracting and most of all it makes me remember you every time. I started working to be distracted, not reminded. But it's like you said; you can't turn it on and off.

Some of them even ask me about you. I hate it when that happens. It's not a surprise that I am recognizable with our presence in the news. I really wish I weren't. I want to just blend in. Some of them don't say anything. But I can see the way they look at me, they wonder even thought they don't ask. Some of them tell me how much they liked my blog and they followed our cases and that they knew you were a good man. Those people believe in you. That's painful enough. Just having to hear them talk about you and be reminded of our past together is enough to hurt. And then there are those who have questions. I have yet to meet a hostile person who completely agrees with the lies publicized about you and I am thankful for that because I don't know what I would do to a person like that. No, these people just wonder. They are curious but what can I tell them? How can I tell them what happened in the end or why you killed yourself because I don't even know the answers to those questions? And really it's none of their business so I wish they would stop asking.

No one know that's I'm not alright. I tell people that I'm alright and they actually believe me. But more often than not they don't ask. They look at me and they believe this act, this façade, that I put on. I wish someone knew that I wasn't alright. I wish that someone could see through me, that someone would care enough to stop and look long enough to realize that I am not fine. I am the farthest thing from it. If you were here, you would know in an instant. You were the only one who could always look at me and know I wasn't alright even when I said I was. You were the only one who could always see through my lies. I got kind of annoyed at it at times but now I wish so very much for that.

As if I needed my life to get less normal and familiar, I can't even read the newspapers anymore. It was so bad at first. Right after your death it was everywhere. On all the magazines and newspapers was your face and words like "suicide" and "fraud." For a long time I didn't even go to the grocery store because I didn't want to see all those retched tabloids. I stopped getting the paper. I hardly ever get on the internet and I have never got on my blog since that day. I can't bear to see the terrible things that people write about you.

Sometimes I get so mad at you. How could you kill yourself? I mean, _really_ Sherlock how could you kill yourself? I always knew you were selfish but I never dreamed you could be this selfish. How could you choose to just leave me like this? Didn't you care at all about me? Didn't it matter to you what this would do to me? Didn't I mean anything to you?

I pledged myself to you. I vowed to follow you anywhere, into any danger, and I was happy to do it too. I always feared you'd die but I never dreamed it would be at your own hands. I feel like I might be able to deal with all of this better if the end had come in another way. I would have done anything for you so why did you just leave like that?

And why did I have to see it? Why did you make me watch it? You told me not to take my eyes off of you and so, of course, I didn't. I did whatever you told me to do. Do you have any idea what it is like to watch someone you care about, your closest friend in the whole world, jump to their death? Do you know what its like to see their blood on the pavement and know it came from their broken head? Do you know what its like to watch them take your lifeless body away?

And I know that you weren't honest with me. I know you were lying to me. All those things you said from the roof weren't true. I don't know what the truth was but that wasn't it. Didn't you think you owed me even that much? Or were you really just trying to hurt me the most you could? Because it did hurt. It's hard for me to trust people. But I trusted you, completely and fully. And in the end you did what was best for you; you didn't think about what I would have to live with.

I'm back in that dark place I was before I met you. Only it's much worse. When I met you I was lonely and depressed. I didn't know what my purpose in this world was anymore. I'm all those things again but it's so much worse because I have the added burden of your suicide on me. The added weight of my grief and longing is so much heavier than any of those other things ever were.

What is the point of it all? What is the point of loving and having friends? What is the point in caring? What is the point in life and living? Do you know? Because I don't. When you found me, you gave me a new purpose, a new reason for living. You were my reason not to give up. But if you, who were my reason for not giving up, gave up, then why shouldn't I too?

Sometimes I think about it. I wonder what I am living for. Why should I keep going when it's so hard? On the darkest nights I stare at the drawer where I keep my gun, sometimes for a long time, thinking about it. But that's as far as I ever get. I have to believe that things will get better one day, even though they aren't getting any better today. Because if I really believed that things were going to stay the way that they are right now I think maybe I would give in.

Because the way things are right now, I don't feel like living. The pain still lives in my heart. It seems to throb with every pulse of my heart. It aches and never allows me to forget its there. At nights I'm haunted by images I saw that day. I see you falling over and over again to your death. I see the blood and your lifeless eyes. I feel your cold hand, dead inside of mine. I feel myself powerless to stop you, over and over again.

And it hurts so badly because I thought I meant something to you. I would have thought that I was enough to stop you. I thought my presence in your life meant as much to you, as your presence in my life meant to me. I thought you cared about me, maybe even loved me, if that were possible. But if you really knew how much you meant to me, you wouldn't have jumped off that building.

I guess you didn't know that. And I can't tell you now because you're not here. So, why I am sill writing this?

**Sorry for all the angst. I'm not sure if this is the kind of story you can enjoy but I hope you like it so far! Thank you to all you are following and reviewing. Next chapter is Sherlock's perspective at six months. **


	4. Six Months: Sherlock

**Six Months: Sherlock **

_Six months and you're not here…_

I'm writing you again though I don't know why. It's not like I am really talking to you. But I guess I have always had a habit of talking to you even when you weren't around. It's just that it's been six months and you're not here and I need you to be.

I think about you every day. I wonder if you're safe. I wonder how you're coping. I wonder what you're doing. I have Mycroft keep an eye on you. You'd be furious if you knew just how much surveillance he has on you but I need to know you're safe. I don't ask him how you are doing. I don't ask him how you are spending your days or how you are coping. I want to know but I know its best that I don't. It's too painful to think about and I need to focus on what I'm doing so I can get home soon. I have told him just to inform me if you are not safe, if something has happened to you. You don't know how much I dread getting a call from him about this.

He did tell me that you moved out of our flat and that he has begun to rent it so that when this terrible thing is over we can go home. I know why he told me but I wished he hadn't; I am sorry to hear that you have left Baker Street. It's my fault I know. I knew you couldn't afford living there without me. It's my fault that you have had to leave your home and for that I am sorry. I know how badly that hurts and I wish there were some way that I could have arranged for you to stay there. But there was no way to do that you would accept while still believing I am dead.

I feel like I'm losing myself and I wish I could talk to you because I know that you would help me find myself again. You are my guiding light, my compass and I feel lost without you. Every day I feel like I am losing my identity. I spend so much time hiding my true identity and becoming someone else that sometimes even I start to forget who I really am. I wear clothes that are not mine and I go by names that are not my own.

It's been months since I've heard my own name or been around anyone who knows me. I am surprised that it bothers me as much as it does. The only person that I have any contact with is Mycroft. He's helping me get things I need to keep going but even him I only have the most limited contact with because it just isn't safe. I must really be starved for some kind of emotional need because I find I look forward to talking with him-and this is Mycroft we're talking about. It's disturbing really.

I have been very surprised at how much the loneliness has gotten to me. Even though I try not to think about you or home or my job or anyone else I know, I still have a hard time keeping the loneliness away. It's so crushing and overwhelming sometimes I think it will undue me. For so long I lived a solitary life; loneliness never bothered me. But something has changed. You have changed me.

It's no wonder everything feels so dark because I live in the shadows. I only come out at night and travel in the darkness as to hide who I am. I feel like a nomad; traveling from one place to the next, never having a place to call home or any place that feels safe or normal. It's a truly dreadful way to live.

I'd only admit it to you but I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I'll fail to bring down Moriarty's network. I'm afraid they'll kill me. I'm afraid they'll find I'm alive and kill you or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade like they promised. I have not had one moment of peace since that awful day on the roof. I can never relax. I'm always looking over my shoulder.

These fears are even manifesting themselves in my dreams. I've never had nightmares but now I have them all the time. I don't get to sleep often but when I do the terrifying images wait for me. I know that you use to have them all the time but I never realized how terrible they are. The fear is magnified and irrational. They make me scream, they make we wake in tears or a sweat. I am good at controlling my emotions when I am awake but I can't do that in this horrible sleep.

Sometimes, I dream of that day; I see Moriarty, hear his threats, see your broken face looking down at me, and hear the tears in your voice. Sometimes, I see myself dying in a horrible way at the hands of my enemies. But the worse ones are the ones where I see you, dying some terrible death that I was unable to stop. I see your blood and hear your pain and watch as the life leaves you.

I called you today. You didn't know it of course but I did. I couldn't seem to help myself. Last night, I had one of those particularly terrible dreams. It was so awful and so _vivid_ that for a few agonizing minutes, I was convinced that it was real and that you were dead. I eventually realized it wasn't but telling myself that it wasn't real and that you were alive and well wasn't enough.

So, I called you. I just had to know that you are alive and safe. I know that Mycroft would tell me if you weren't but I had to hear it with it with my own ears. It was a ridiculous thing for me to do; I shouldn't do anything that could even remotely put you in danger but the call couldn't be traced and I said nothing so you didn't know who it was. And the embarrassing truth is that it was the best moment I've had in the past six months

I called and after a few rings you picked up. "Hello. Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?" That's all you said but it was enough. It was really you. I guess a part of me had started to believe that you weren't real, that you were some figment of my imagination that I had invented some long time ago. But you're not fake; you're real. And now I remember what your voice sounds like; I had started to forget.

It was both strengthening and debilitating. It was debilitating because it brought back this rush of emotions, ones that I've been trying to repress. I've tried really hard not to think about you too much. I miss you too much and if I think about it, it will cripple me. As I heard your voice, for the first time in six months, and allowed myself to feel those feelings for a brief time I felt the weight of it crash over me. I gripped the phone and held on to it long after you had hung up. I actually thought it might bring me to my knees.

But it was more strengthening. It reminded me of what I'm fighting for. It reminded me why I have to be away. I have to be away from you so that you can be safe. I have to keep fighting so I can come home. I'm surprised that you give me strength like you do. Even now, when you're so far away and you don't even know it, you're still pushing me on. You're the reason I keep fighting even though this task seems impossible at times.

I never realized how much I have come to need you. It's not just that I enjoy your company; I actually need you. Most people in my life I have either tolerated or hated. There's hardly been anyone that I have enjoyed being around and there has no one I have needed. But I need you.

It's kind of annoying actually. I have never needed anyone and now I am dependent on you. Even if I were never to see you again and go back to what I was before I met you, I couldn't go back to who I was before. I knew that emotions were destructive because of things like this because there is no such thing as safe love. It's always at a risk. You're always going to get hurt. It makes me a little mad that you have made me need you because I have never wanted to have to depend on anyone. But I'm not really mad. It makes me feel out of control which I don't like but I never knew it could feel this good to have someone who meant so much to me.

I miss having you by my side. This terrible work would be so much better with you here. I'd give almost anything to have one of your compliments or jokes to lighten the load I carry around now.

I sit here tonight in one of the most beautiful cities in the world but I get no enjoyment out of it. All I can do is sit here and think of home and wish I was there. Or wish at least that you were here. But you're not here; you're at home. And I'm fighting for home.

**The next two chapters will visit John and Sherlock on the one year anniversary of Sherlock's death. The follows and feedback are appreciated! **


	5. One Year: John

Warning: Mentions of alcohol dependence

**One Year: John**

_One year and you're not here…_

One year. It's been one full year and you're not here. And I'm writing again because I can't do this anymore.

Christmas came and you weren't here. Your birthday came and you weren't here. Fall, winter, and spring came and still you weren't here. And now the day of your death came and still you aren't here. I only know this from the world around me. It keeps living and I see it but my world isn't moving because it isn't alive anymore.

I'm glad, in a way, that you're not here to see what I've become. If you were you would probably be disgusted with me. I know I am disgusted with myself. I hate how hard my heart has gotten and how dead I feel on the inside. I hate how much I've learned to live without others and how nothing seems to stir my heart anymore. But most of all I hate the fact that that I am so weak and I haven't been able to move on from you.

I have become something I never wanted to become. At first, I only used the alcohol to help me sleep at night. The pain and the quietness, which I felt the most when I laid down to sleep, would be dulled enough by it that I could manage to sleep. It was never a restful sleep because nightmares always wait on me but I had to sleep sometime, once in a while. Ever since _that _day, I have depended on it to sleep.

But it didn't take long before I was drinking earlier and earlier in the day. I started needing it in the evening. It seemed that as soon as the darkness fell outside it would overwhelm me. Then I needed it in the afternoon when my energy started to run low. Now I am ashamed to say I need it the mornings just to get going. You knew me; I never wanted to be an alcoholic but that is exactly what I am.

I always judged Harry. I always got so mad at her for choosing the alcohol over so many other things, over so many people, for needing it so much. I always thought she was weak. Now I guess that means I am weak. I agree with that; it's pathetic what I have become, how I have not been able to move on.

As if to show me just how damaged and weak I am, my limp has returned. It's not as bad as it was before and I don't need the cane to get around. I don't think it's less pronounced because the tragedy was less traumatic because that certainly isn't true. I think it's because I know in my head, without a doubt, that there is nothing physically wrong with my leg. The fact that it's back at all is ridiculous. But even though I know that there is no physical reason I should be limping I can't keep from it and it doesn't make the pain in my leg go away.

I still work at the hospital but not full time. Understand me; I do not drink when I'm working. I have never and will never work under the influence of alcohol. I am thankful that there are still some areas in my life where I can say I draw the line. And that's the reason I can't work full time.

I only work when the hospital is understaffed or someone is on a break and they need someone to fill in. And for that time I am focused on the work. I go through the motions and everyone thinks I'm fine and I'm so good on putting on an act that sometimes I almost fool myself. Almost. But I never succeed. I want to get enjoyment out of my work but I still don't. And I can't keep it up for long.

I don't see anyone much these days. I had not realized just how few people I knew until you were gone. I never realized how much of my life you had become until you were gone and there was no one else. Of course, now I remember that I had been terribly lonely before you had come along. But when I met you, you were so consuming of my attention that I never stopped to consider what my life was aside from you. At first the loneliness was so consuming I wasn't sure how I would overcome it. I came home and no one was there. I went to bed and no one was there. I got up and no one was there. There was no one to take care of but myself. It was so quiet all the time. I wasn't sure I could survive it.

But now I've found a way to live without anyone. It's not really the way I would prefer things but it at least helps me survive. It started to alarm me when I realized that it no longer bothered me if I saw or talked to anyone for days on end because I didn't want to be that kind of person. But then I realized that the pain was gone and I didn't care anymore.

The only person I really see is Mrs. Hudson and even her I don't see that often. I don't want to see her because every time I do it only reminds me of you. No matter what we do or what we talk about there is always that moment, when the conversation stalls, and in the silence we both realize who is missing and who we are both thinking about. Even the fact that I know her at all is because of you. I know I should spend more time with her and that she wants to see me but she is from a world that I am trying to forget.

I dreaded this day. I knew that the pain would be so much worse on this day than any other and it's already so painful on a normal day. I know it's painful because of the remembering; if I had forgotten what day it was and not acknowledged what anniversary this day marks, then I would have been fine (or what passes for fine these days). But of course I can't forget what this day is. And that's the problem. I can't forget and I can't move on and it's all just too painful.

You're still changing me. When you came into my life you changed it so much for the better. You brought life and excitement and happiness. And now your absence still changes me but I don't like the person its making me now. You did not die nobly, in the throws of an exciting case, doing all you could to bring justice, as I always imagined you would. You died in pain and hopelessness and those are the things shaping me now.

The darkness and misery that you died in are always here for me. They hang over me and won't allow me to ignore them. They constantly tell me to give up on life. They tell me that nothing matters. They try to tell me that all those things that were good and that mattered, don't matter because of the way they ended. They tell me the memories can't be good because of what I know now. They try to tell me to give up like you did. I honestly don't know why I keep going, why I don't just give up. You did. And you were always stronger and braver than me and it wasn't enough. But there is something that won't let me give up.

Sometimes I get mad at hope. That's what still propels me on. It's a small flicker deep inside of me that somehow still wishes there was a way that you were alive. I hate it sometimes. Because I know that it's so irrational and I'm probably delusional because you're not alive and you won't be back. I still felt it today as I went to your grave. I remembered what I begged you there a year ago. That somehow you could be alive, that somehow this was all some mistake and you would stop being dead, just for me.

I went there alone. I know that Mrs. Hudson was there sometime today. I saw the beautiful flowers she left there. I'm sure she would have liked to go with me but I didn't ask and neither did she. I just wanted to be there alone. Truly alone. And that is what I was because you weren't there.

I thought I would want to talk you once I got there but I didn't. I didn't because the things I was thinking were things I didn't want to say out loud. I have spent the past year focusing on you. I've focused on the hurt you caused me. I've focused on how much I miss you. I've even focused on how I hate you at times. I've blamed you for so many things because all of that is so much easier than the worst I feel. That's why I couldn't speak today because I couldn't focus on those things anymore. I faced the truth and it literally brought me to my knees.

Looking at your grave, I dropped to my knees because the guilt is overwhelming. I can't take the guilt. I can't live with myself anymore for the regret that I failed you. I am a complete failure because somehow I failed to show you how much you meant to me. I failed to keep the darkness away from you. I always knew that you struggled with it. I knew there were demons in your past, in your mind that you just barely kept at bay and I always tried to keep them away and mostly I succeeded. It was my job to be strong, to protect you and I failed. And that means that I am not even who I thought I was because if I couldn't keep my best friend from killing himself then I am someone else.

This is why I don't focus on the regret because it makes me despise myself. I regret so much that I never told you how I felt. I'd do anything to go back and tell you what you meant to me. I just never thought I needed to say it. It would have been so awkward to say it and you never would have said it so neither did I. I knew how you felt even though you didn't say it so I thought you would know how I felt without me saying it. But you didn't understand it. I should have said it. I should have known you didn't understand. Why didn't I say it? I hate myself. And I hate you too.

Today feels like some sort of turning point because it's been a full year. A person should be able to at least start moving on in a year's time. But I haven't. I've tried and failed miserably, so I am going to have to do something else.

I have to do whatever I can to convince myself that I don't want you back, that I don't miss you. I have to somehow believe that because unless I do, I will continue to wish somehow you could be alive. And I have to stop because miracles aren't real and hope hurts. I'm tired of letting you hurt me.

I have to stop all of this. I can't write these letters anymore. I can't continue to write like I am talking to you because I am never going to see you or talk to you again. I have to stop remembering you. You can't have a place in my life anymore.

I would end this with a goodbye but what would the point?


	6. One Year: Sherlock

**One Year: Sherlock**

_One year and you're not here…_

I'm writing again and it finally makes sense to me why. Because it's been one year and you're not here but thinking about you is what keeps me going.

It's hard to believe that it has been an entire year since my supposed 'death.' Most of the time it seems like so much longer. This year has been so hard and so difficult that I can't believe a mere 12 months has passed. But sometimes it seems like it can't possibly be a whole year because I still have so much to accomplish. By this time I had expected to be finished and return home. I never dreamed it would take me more than a year to take down Moriarty's web of crime. I had underestimated just how far his influence had reached and its taking much longer anticipated.

I've lost all sense of time and normal life. Before I met you, I never paid attention to all those things that ordinary people notice. Holidays and special occasions never meant anything to me and I never knew about them until you pointed them out. Now, without you here, they are gone again and the passing of time is harder to spot. This whole year has made me see things about myself I never knew about myself. It's made me realize I want things I took for granted and I need things I said I didn't.

Until this year I never realized that some part of me actually does need to be around people. A few select people only and a very limited time of course but still that desire is there. And until this year I never knew what home or you meant to me. I need those two things much more than I ever knew. This year has been so dark for me that I do not know how I would have come out of it were not thinking about them.

I saw you today. For the first time in a year, I saw you. It was only from a distance and you didn't know I was there but it made me more excited than I care to admit.

I was in London today to take care of a few things with Mycroft. Somehow, against my better judgment, I just had to see you. I've never felt anything like it before but just knowing how close you were I just had to see you. It didn't make any sense. Logically, I shouldn't have gone out into the daylight. And logically I shouldn't have gotten so close to you. But there is nothing logical about what I feel.

I went to the hospital where you work. I was able to slip in easy enough and I saw you working in the emergency department. I watched as you bandaged this little boy's arm. I could tell that he was anxious and he didn't speak very much at first. But I watched as you communicated with him and helped him feel better. Before long you had him smiling. I'd never seen you as work as a doctor and it was good to see. In the midst of the life I'm currently living, how it feels anything but human, it was good to see the normalcy and that some problems in the world can still be easily fixed.

I hadn't planned on it, but I stayed longer as you worked with more and more patients. You looked like you were in your element. You were so good with the people. You were gentle and kind with them. You smiled at them and made them feel better. You said I was the most 'human' human being you had ever seen, but today I saw that you are more human than I am, or ever could be. This is why, even though I can't indulge in it for long, I think about you and how you keep me going.

But I saw it. I saw what they could not. On the surface you looked happy, satisfied. You put on a good act but I can see. I see the pain in your eyes. There is hurt that still lives there. I see how the smile is a fake one. You're not alright. I can see you limp a little. It's not so bad that you need a cane as you once did but it is there again. And I know that I'm the one who brought it back, I'm the one who put the pain in your eyes. It's hard to see that I am dragging you down when you have done nothing but pull me up in the past year.

Part of me hoped that I would come back and find that you had moved on. I wanted to see that you were happy and you were living a full life. I wanted to know you're alright. But another part, a very selfish part, wanted to see that you still missed me. I don't want you to be in pain but I want to know that when I come back into your life that there will still be room for me in. I wanted to know that I meant enough to leave a hole.

I wish I could tell you how brave I think you are. I know you are brave because you just keep going even though you think I am gone. I don't know how you do it. I also wish I could tell you that you are the only thing that keeps me going. I have had to do so many terrible things and the only thing that keeps me from giving up is knowing that when I have finished I will be able to go back to you. I carry of picture of us with me to remember what I am fighting for. It's one with me in the stupid hat and you smiling next me. It helps me to remember the life I had and the life I hope to one day have again.

Thank you for being there for me even when you're not here. Because I know how brave you are being, thinking I am dead, I can be brave enough to stay away knowing you are alive. Because you hurt so much in my absence I know I was important. You help me to feel like a human when I feel like a monster (and I feel like that a lot these days). You help me to remember who I am when I have forgotten.

I am trying hard but I don't know when I will see you again. Until then, don't give up. Please don't forget me. Please don't hate me. I don't know what I will be like when I get back but I take comfort in knowing that when I do home will waiting on me.

* * *

**Three Years: Sherlock**

Three years and I'm not there. But I'm coming home.

**That concludes "You're Not Here." Sorry it was so angsty and that it didn't end well but this isn't the end of the story. I am currently writing a sequel to this one, where Sherlock returns to John. It will be entitled "Come Back to Me."Thanks for reading and as always let me know what you think :)  
**


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